The Warrior's Princess Bride. Meriel Fuller
for the small thicket of trees in the corner of the sheep pasture. How dare he! How dare he treat them both like this? Refusing to lend her the coin to fetch a skilled physician that her mother so desperately needed! She took a deep, shuddering breath, trying to think practically, fingers curling around the smooth stock of her bow as it rested upon the ground. There must be another way.
Needing to steady her anger, she unwound the white veil from her hair, tying the cloth around the tree trunk. Firing her crossbow had always calmed her, channelling her vision on the target in front, slowing her breathing. Oft-times, when she found her father’s temper too much to bear, she had come out to these woods, sending arrow upon arrow into the trees; constantly honing her skill made her feel more secure. Indeed, it was because of her father’s behaviour that she had learned to shoot; the urge to protect her mother, and defend herself, had become paramount in her life. She had never needed to use the bow against him…not yet, anyway.
Placing the knot in the centre of the trunk to form a makeshift bull’s eye, she paced back over the open ground, away from the thicket, her wide skirts flaring over short, sheep-nibbled grass. Determination clouded her delicate features, small lines of strain etched around her mouth. Yesterday, she had felt so useless, so unable to defend herself in the face of those English barbarians; she couldn’t let something like that happen again. Her chest constricted with the memory. How stupid she had been to leave her bow in her father’ cart; if the weapon had been at her side, she could have picked them off, one by one, including him, that barbarian leader, the man with midnight eyes.
From the leather satchel slung diagonally across her back, she drew out one arrow, tipped with white goose feathers. She placed the crossbow on the ground, upending it so the curve of the weapon faced downwards. Putting her toes either side of the stock kept the weapon steady, so she could draw back the sinew cord and hook it over a notch at the top of the bow.
Slotting the arrow into the central groove, Tavia raised the bow to eye level, willing herself to concentrate, to focus on the target. Her sight narrowed on the knot, the tied ends of the veil fluttering either side of it. Her fingers sought the lever underneath the bow, the lever that would lower the notch and release the cord, which would in turn send the quarrel into the target. Taking one deep breath, she squeezed.
The arrow flew straight, its iron tip landing in the middle of the knot with a dull thud. In a moment, she had re-armed the weapon, sending another, then another arrow straight to the centre of the target.
‘When you’re done with wasting your time out here, mayhap you’d get your backside in the house, girl! There’s work to be done!’ Tavia jumped as her father’s strident tones cut through the stiffening breeze as he lumbered over the field. Her shoulder muscles tensed as she lowered the crossbow and turned.
Dunstan eyed the three arrows in the target, then spat derisively on the ground, his face ugly with lines of hostility. ‘Wasting your time out here with that damned thing!’ His mouth curled down with miserable resentment.
‘It’s no waste if it saves my life one day,’ she replied mutinously, resisting the inclination to take a step back from her father’s scowl, ‘or the life of another.’
‘It’s no use unless you’re a man,’ her father cackled. ‘With a skill like that you’d earn good money.’ He nodded towards the arrows pinning the linen knot to the bark.
Behind her, a slight breeze sighed through the treetops, like water running over stones. ‘What are you saying?’ Tavia asked, her tone careful.
Dunstan laughed nastily. ‘King Malcolm’s worried. He’ll pay anything for good marksmen. With these attacks from the English, he’s losing longbow men every day. Soldiers armed with a crossbow are far more effective.’
‘So how does one become a bowman for the King?’ She made a huge effort to keep her voice level, calm.
Her father peered at her suspiciously. ‘He holds a weekly contest. Any competent marksmen can turn up and have a go. If the King and his commanders think anyone is any good, they’ll sign you up immediately.’
‘And how much does he pay?’
‘Nine pence a day.’
Tavia’s eyes widened. ‘A small fortune!’ Her heart began to pound.
‘One that we’ll never have if we stand here prattling all day,’ Dunstan said roughly. ‘Come, girl, there’s work to be done.’
The imposing walls of Dunswick Castle stretched up high from a craggy promontory of basalt rock, towering above the patterned roofs of the town. The thick buttresses, constructed of huge square blocks of stone larger than a man, seemed to grow up out of the rock on which the castle perched to form an intimidating, impressive defence.
Shielding her eyes against the bright April sunlight, Tavia followed the wheeling flight of the crows as they circled in the air currents above one of the four corner towers. The screeching of the birds, a sad and lamenting lilt, did little to boost her confidence. Hesitating on the main bridge that led into the town, she swallowed, her throat tightening with an unusual dryness. She picked unsteadily at a loose patch of pale green lichen on the flat stone that topped the bridge wall.
When she had arisen that morning, long before dawn had spread its faint light through the hills and dales, she had felt composed, beset with iron-clad determination about the task she intended to undertake. Dressing hastily in some of her father’s cast-off clothes, discovered at the bottom of an oak coffer, she had started the fire and porridge so as not to draw her father’s anger. As long as he was warm and could fill his belly, then he would not think to question his daughter’s whereabouts. Planting a light, farewell kiss on her mother’s brow had only served to strengthen her resolve; with dismay, she noticed the skin on her mother’s hands had erupted into savage blisters.
Now, as she yanked the hood low over her delicate features, she wondered about the success of her proposed endeavour. When her father had spoken about the contest to find more crossbow men for the King, he had no knowledge that his words, spoken with derision, had given her a solution to finding the money to pay for a physician’s visit to her mother. She would enter the competition, disguised as a young boy, and hopefully be picked as a good shot. Once in the service of the King, she would earn enough in a sennight to hire a competent physician. Only then would she leave and return to her home in the hills.
The outer bailey thronged with people, a profusion of noise and colour. Green-and-gold tunics clashed with ladies dressed in sumptuous gowns glowing in a vivid array of colours. Rich cloaks of fox, ermine and bear contrasted strangely with the drab hues of the peasant clothes, some not more than rags hanging off a thin frame. Backing into the wall of the bailey, Tavia spotted a set of steps to her left and she leaped up, grateful for the easy vantage point. From here she could see the raised platform, tented with a heavily embroidered linen, on which the nobility sat. The fresh-faced King Malcolm, his bright red hair glinting in the sunlight, sat next to his regent, Ferchar of Strathearn. Tavia remembered the outcry when Malcolm’s father, Earl Henry, younger brother to King David of Scotland, had died before he could succeed to the Scottish throne. Luckily, King David had arranged for Ferchar to manage the affairs of the state until Malcolm reached an age when he could take full responsibility.
A huge, round archery target had been set up in front of the dais, and already men were taking their place behind the rope line, lifting their bows and shooting. Some attempts drew guffaws of derisive laughter from the crowd of onlookers; others received cheers of admiration. Tavia sprung down from the steps, relishing the comforting bump of her crossbow slung over her back, and started to make her way through the mêlée, heading for the straggling queue that had formed behind one of the castle soldiers.
‘Name?’ the soldier asked, scarcely looking at her when she had finally shuffled her way to the front of the queue.
‘William of Saxonby,’ she lied, trying to keep her voice as low and as gruff as possible.
‘Bit young, aren’t you?’ The soldier laughed, showing a full set of rotten teeth. ‘Does your mother know where you are?’
Tavia